


Foxglove

by aderyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: crimes of passion, toxic & therapeutic, victimless crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:11:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We don’t have a victim,” says John.<br/>“That’s the problem,” Sherlock  says,” No victim, no crime.”...<br/>"People seem to think love is a victimless crime. “<br/>“No they don’t,” John says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foxglove

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, [ greenjudy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greenjudy/pseuds/greenjudy) and [ScienceofObsession](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceofObsession/pseuds/ScienceofObsession).

 

_“Innocence so constantly finds itself in a false position that inwardly innocent people learn to be disingenuous...The system of our affections is too corrupt for them. They are bound to blunder, then to be told they cheat. In love, the sweetness and violence they have to offer involves a thousand betrayals for the less innocent...The innocent are so few that two of them seldom meet—when they do meet, their victims lie strewn all round.”—Elizabeth Bowen, The Death of the Heart_

 

“We don’t have a victim,” says John.

“That’s the problem,” Sherlock  says,” No victim, no crime.”

“No such thing as a victimless crime.”

“Is that strictly true, John?”

The night is very close around them, around a  back garden in Hampstead. A pair of lovers has fled into it, the night that is, taking with them all the evidence they’re ever going to find. There’s no body. Or if there is, even Sherlock Holmes cannot say where.

“Absolutely true. If it’s a crime, there’s a victim.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, looking into the window the lovers were once behind, fresh from the bedlinens, spinning their pillow talk into a getaway, strategic. “People seem to think love is a victimless crime. “

“No they don’t,” John says.

“Yes they do, or they wouldn’t keep committing it.” 

“You don’t commit love,” says John, thinks,   _you commit *to* it._

“You were going to say, ‘you commit _to_ it’,” Sherlock  says, “ Predictable.”

“I dislike you immensely,” John says.  There’s a breath while he smiles to himself amidst the foxglove.

“Ah well, I adore you,” Sherlock says , returns to his window.

***

Later, at home, low lights, low success rate, John looks at Sherlock over the rim of a cup.

 “Before,  when you said that. Did you mean it without  irony?”  He says it in the same tone he’d  use to ask Sherlock say, if the bleeding had stopped yet or if he was running  a fever. 

Sherlock flashes him a bit of low-grade interest over the spine of _English Botany._

“I did.”

“And…what did you mean by it?”

“I meant,” Sherlock says, “ that I have a high regard for you.”

John doesn’t say anything. Sherlock lowers the botany until his his untroubled eyebrows are apparent.

“‘Adore,’” he says, “from the Latin ‘ to speak’ or’ to pray”; therefore I have a certain … reverence for you that goes beyond  gratitude for your usefulness. “

“Oh for…” John says, “Usefulness.”

“Is that offensive?” Sherlock says, putting the botany in his lap, ” I always did think ‘useful’ was compliment. Most people are…”

“Useless, I know, “John says,” It doesn’t matter. “

He stops, adds, “Have you ever had a high regard for anyone before?”

“You want that you should be the only one?”

“No, it’s just…”

“You’re the only one, “Sherlock says.

***

“Of course I do,” says John, later, elsewhere, “ I’m not completely devoid of the natural human longing for uniqueness.”

The lovers have returned to their window, to their garden, bringing with them hairs, eyelashes, fibres,  fluids, cells, mistakes, slips, lipstick, underwear, stupidity, and arrogance.

“Stupid,” says Sherlock. “They left the torch in the carport, and the keys are in the pond.  I don’t know why I didn’t see it.”

“Too busy adoring me,” says John, his gun burrowing into his back.

The cut grass seems dangerous; the foxglove high and violet.

“You’re enjoying yourself immensely,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah,” says John.

***

Lestrade is ecstatic when he arrests the lovers.

John is heavy-eyed and giddy. “Pick another word,” he says.

“Another word, “ Sherlock says, glancing over at Lestrade. He’s smiling now, but he’ll be up to his eyebrows in paperwork soon. The lovers have a complicated criminal history. One of them has sloe eyes. The other has the green thumb.

“You need food,” Sherlock says. “And sleep.”

“ Pick another word,” says John, “’Adore’ is too…”

“Worshipful,” says Sherlock. “You worship _me_ , don’t you? Chinese or Thai?”

“Thai,” says John, “What?”

***

“Feeling all right?”  Sherlock says, not taking a bite of the Chinese-after- all.

There’s a pair of lovers at the next table, feeding one another bits of crispy wonton, blinking rapidly, heart rates rising with the MSG and the caffeine and the proximity and the scarlet Formica.

“Fine, “ says John.

“How about ‘love ‘ then? “ says Sherlock. “You seem to like it.”

“Acceptable, “ says John. “What?”

John swallows, aspirates his tea, coughs, lets Sherlock clap him on the back.

When the tannins are out of his lungs he gives Sherlock a look, steals one at the lovers with their chopsticks and their pupils.

“What are they doing? “ he whispers, “Planning their escape?”

His eyes are still watering.

***

“I’ve never planned to escape,” says John within earshot of Molly.

“From the morgue?” she says , glancing round at the exits.

“From me,” Sherlock says.

“I’ve never, “Molly says, hands over the last of the ring fingers she’s willing to part with, thinks _, seen you smile like that._

***

Later, at home, John looks at Sherlock over the rim of a cup.

“It’s not a crime,” he says. “You know.”

***

Lestrade is still ecstatic about arresting the lovers.  The paperwork wasn’t so terrible. The garden in Hampstead is still standing, though it nearly had a body in it.  The foxgloves are beautiful, purple, straight up with their secrets,  the hearts they will steady. The window is empty, no-one looking through. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Foxglove, Digitalis purpurea, contains cardiac glycosides used in the treatment of arrhythmias and other heart conditions. The whole plant is toxic to humans and animals; therefore both toxic and therapeutic.  
> [Digitalis purpurea](http://plants.usda.gov/java/profile?symbol=DIPU)
> 
> “The "folks" of our ancestors were the fairies and nothing is more likely than that the pretty coloured bells of the plant would be designated "folksgloves," afterwards, "foxglove." In Wales it is declared to be a favourite lurking-place of the fairies... In south of Scotland it is called "bloody fingers" more northward, "deadman's bells" whilst in Wales it is known as "fairy-folks-fingers" or "lambs-tongue-leaves"”---Lankester, English Botany, or Coloured Figures of British Plants, 1866
> 
>  
> 
> [Prunus spinosa, blackthorn, or sloe](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prunus_spinosa)
> 
>  
> 
> Kind of a companion to [“Ellipsis or Sherlock in Love”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/407517) and [ “Rare Earths.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/452453)” Conversation and saying and not-saying: Maybe one of these days I’ll write about something else…


End file.
